Harry Potter And The Snuggly Snake
by Burn Note
Summary: Finding the Chamber of Secrets is difficult. It happens only every two or three centuries. It takes talent, dedication and a rare magical bloodline. Harry Potter managed it without any of the three. Although, to say he 'found' it would be misleading.
1. In which a plot fails

**A.N: No claim of ownership, no profit intended, and so on. If you something bad, typo or otherwise, say so. It'll make me happier than just 'Good Job!'**

Harry Potter was in a bad mood.  
This was totally unfair, since it was Saturday and therefore bad moods should not exist. But Draco had some super special new potion thing he'd been talking, well bragging, about for the last few days. Some sort of maxclaw thing? Harry didn't know, he'd done his best to ignore it. And the day had started horribly. Breakfast had been interrupted by Hermione, so Ron and Ron's stomach complained about it for the rest of the day. Irritating, and unneccessary, because his own stomach was doing a splendid job all on its own.  
It would have been ok though, he'd have gladly forgiven her, if only she'd had a good reason. Excitement about Malfoy's... thing was beyond Not.

And it continued. Nothing really seemed to go right. Hermione forced him to research something he was actively trying to not care about. Ron vented his frustrations very clearly (not loudly though, it was the library after all) and Harry's stomach joined in for refrain. Well until Ron managed to ditch them three hours in, the devious bastard. His mom had trained him well. Harry would have congratulated him, if his raging jealousy would have allowed that. The library also had decided that today was a great day to have windows. Normally he would have welcomed the relieve from the depressing gloom. The problem: it really was a great day, unless one was caught inside, in that case it felt like the sky was taunting him. The presence of several figures on brooms, one with a distinct red hair and smaller than the rest only added to the feeling.

Harry told himself that it was perfectly understandable to do something rash under that kind of pressure.  
Like snatch that stupid vial Malfoy had been making such a fuss about during the obligatory mid-day taunting. When the twins came in for an attack run, he just had to act on the opportunity. If anyone (or worse Hermione) found out, he'd blame it on his reflexes. He had only been at Hogwarts for a few months, but he'd already learned that no day was complete without the eruption of something. It was basically Law, and the Twins (and Slytherins) had taken it on themselves to enforce it. Though admittedly, Neville would have blown up his fair share of cauldrons without the assistance. So the sudden bombardment didn't surprise him as much as it apparently did Draco, judging from the spastic motions that sent the vial in his hands arching through the air. He was a seeker; catching small, quickly moving objects was what he did. He really couldn't, shouldn't be held accountable for that.

Of course, now Harry had a bit of a problem. He did not want to get caught with the liberated vial (it must have been just as sick of Draco's strutting as the rest of the castle, right?), or he'd never get out of detention. Which, actually, would be a Good Thing, because Hermione would never stop hounding and nagging and berating him, and she was even more terrifying than Snape.

His first idea was to flush it down some unused toilet. It seemed perfectly reasonable, so he didn't wait for a second idea, like just smashing it and walking away. It would have saved him a good bit of trouble.

And so it was that he found himself in the third floor girl's room. He'd heard it wasn't in use anymore, something about flooded toilets. Why they couldn't just fix it; he didn't know. He'd only been in the wizarding world for a few months, but he already knew that they had some strange ideas and that questioning them would A) lead to a headache, and B) a ticked off Hermione, which meant even more brain pain. For all he knew, the Cult of the Braided Underpants dictated that third floor girl's bathrooms had to be flooded every 27 and 3/4 hours, unless it was the Year of the Golden Knob. Though judging from Dumbledor's outfit, it was probably more like the Cult of the Colourblind Tailor.

He was still deep in these contemplations when the day's bad luck caught up with him again.  
He slipped on the wet floor and suddenly found himself lying on said wet floor with an aching ass and a hurting head. Getting up, and alternatively hissing in pain and hissing curses, he tried to lean on one of the basins to steady himself. Tried being the key word, since apparently the basin had objected to his use of foul language, and decided to search out politer company. So instead, he found himself plummeting down a long, strange pipe headfirst.  
He really should have seen it coming.

The impact at the end was almost welcome, since it relieved him of his pain, dizziness and consciousness for the next few hours.

* * *

When he finally awoke, it was in a strangely euphoric mood. He was certain he'd just had the worst day ever, and now it could only get better. Even the problem of Draco's maxcaw had solved itself, if the stain on his robe was anything to go by.  
Harry sat up energetically, got to his feet and started brushing of his robes. He stopped when he had achieved a more even distribution of slime. Undaunted by his new enviroment, he set out to explore the cave he'd found himself in, since going back the way he'd come certainly wasn't an option. His enthusiasm lasted only a few minutes, or more precisely, until he started to make out a distinct snake motive. He still kept up his mood by imagining that he'd just found the secret entrance to the Sylitherin dorms and that the gloop was actually hair grease from Snape. When he reached a massive snake door, he did feel some trepidation. He was genuinely afraid that he'd been right and that behind the door he'd find a scene of unspeakable horror. Like Draco waxing his broom with a lock of Snape's hair or ...no! Insanity lay on that path.

So he tried to distract himself, he really couldn't afford to go insane right now; it would have to wait until he was back in Hogwarts proper where no one would notice. So he started looking for a hidden switch or something. His brain betrayed him though, and continued to think. The scenarios had become somewhat ridiculous. Brooms could fly, so simply lowering it into a vat of... ugh. It had to stop.

So he began beatboxing. It was something he picked up when he was very young and noticed that the man doing it had made Uncle Vernon angrier than Harry had ever seen before. That meant it was very good for Harry. Things good for Harry always made Vernon angry. It certainly was a blessing in the most boring hours in the cupboard or during the most tedious chores. He fancied himself as pretty good, though he'd never heard anyone else do it ever again.

As such, he was ill prepared when a voice answered the challenge (He'd heard somewhere beatboxing always started with a challenge to a beatboxing duel. For a good reason, apparently).  
He was even more surprised when the challenger turned out to be the door.  
An impromptu rap-battle with an ancient door may have been the craziest, most unexpected thing to ever happen to him, but it was also the most awesome. He took it as prove that his day was finally improving. Especially when the door let out a final hiss(did her hear a note of respect?) and slowly began to open. He had to correct himself: Winning an impromptu rap-battle with an ancient door was the most awesome thing to ever happen to him.

Though it also had the downside that he would now bear witness to the depravities of the Slytherin dorms. The snakes had obviously fallen from their former glory as beatboxing masters. Draco simply had too much of a whine in his voice, it would sound ridiculous.

In that state of mind, the huge cathedralic cave was actually something of a relief (no Draco doing unspeakable things to his broom), and the bones and shed snake-skin didn't actually worry him. He'd been expecting that. He'd also been expecting some display of overblown ego, but the magnitude still took him by surprise. From somewhere, a sudden anger overcame him at the sight, and pressed some very foolish words from him:  
"So you're the great prick who's responsible for this. Well, what do you have to say for yourself? Answer me!"  
Just as he'd spoken the last word, his euphoria shattered, suddenly false and artificial, and a feeling of dread settled heavily in his stomach. His heart joined it a moment later when a creak filled the stagnant air and the mouth of the statue slowly began to open.  
Insulting super powerful wizards in their home ground was obviously a one-time hobby.

His thoughts went into overdrive. What could it be? Visions of horror appeared, each more dreadful then the last. Harry's imagination tried it's best to kill him with fear before whatever came out could. Fortunatly, his imagination was as much a novice in the art of murder as Harry himself, so it never got very far. It still managed to completely occupy him until a sudden question snapped him out of it.  
"What doesss a hundred yard ball of troll sssnot have to do with ssseven sssurprise goatsss?"

In all honesty, he was disappointed. Of course it was a snake. He should have seen it coming. To be fair, the most prominent members of the house reminded him more of a peacock and a vulture respectively, but still.  
And it was only a big snake. Not even a giant snake, according to Dudley, a monster was only giant if it attacked Tokyo. He was willing to trust his cousin on that, Dudley knew all about pointless destruction and could quote lots of sources, and Hermine had lectured him on the importance of sources. And even if Dudley was wrong and it was giant, that still wasn't so impressive. It wasn't made of fire or lightning or something wizardly. I was just big.

And it was curious, if the cocked head and insistently poking tail were anything to go by. And not even all that menacing. The huge golden eyes where rather pretty, and combined with the puzzled expression it was rather cute. In fact, the entire fifty feet long snake with very large fangs was adorable. Harry made some quick deliberations. He had just won an impromptu rap-battle with an ancient door. He could die happily now.

So he took a step forward wrapped his arms around as much of the head as he could, and give the snake a hug. He noted that the scales were smooth and warm and really quite soft, despite being hard, well, scales, just like he had somehow expected them to be.

It was the first time he had ever hugged anyone.  
A few seconds later, it was also the first time he'd ever been hugged back.


	2. In which tastes are contemplated

They stayed like that for a long time. Or at least it felt that way to Harry. He was too busy feeling loved and protected and all those new things to count seconds. Until he discovered something rather astonishing, something all other suburban white kids already knew: You can get bored of feeling loved and protected. So Harry let go and leaned back, as far as he could still wrapped up in snake.

He was somewhat conflicted about the recent chain of events. While a deep, emotional moment was certainly appreciated, and long overdue, it would have been nice to have it with another human. Or at least humanoid, he wasn't a speciesist (mainly because he wasn't really sure what that actually meant, the hailstorm of heavy words had left nothing beyond the knowledge that Hermione disapproved and that it had to do with human-shaped not-really-humans). But when it came down to it, he really couldn't afford to be picky. but it was still a bit awkward.

"I sort of expected to be eaten."  
"I can ssstill do that."  
"Hmm, that would be one hell of a way to die. But for now, I'll pass. By the way, I'm sorry if I came on too strong. You are rather adorable, somehow. Though that might be the concussion speaking."  
"And you looked rather moronic, I'm certainly glad you have an excussse."

Harry blinked. It had a point though. Being so distracted that a fifty feet snake could sneak up on him was a sign of brain malfunction, hopefully only temporary. Come to think of it...  
"Could you unwrap yourself? I think I should sit down."  
It - he really should ask for a gender, and name- did so with commendable speed.

Too much, really. Harry almost planted his face into the ground. But he caught himself, and after a bit of stumbling, he managed to touch down with the right body part. Hopefully the snake wouldn't mind being repurposed as a chair.  
Then he spent the next few minutes in a battle to keep his meal down. Now, at last, he had a reason to thank Hermione, because dinner had already lost most of his fighting spirit, and he still barely managed. With support from breakfast, they would have already escaped. And throwing up on his current host, well, there were better ways to commit suicide. Intentional, for one. And if he was going to take his host up on its gracious offer, he'd make sure to season himself beforehand. He liked to think of himself as a professional (he cooked for a living, even if it wasn't by choice), and with that came a certain pride and the desire to do things properly.

"Are you're eyess sssupposssed to point in different directionsss?"

Harry cursed himself. He'd let his attentions slip, again! How incredibly rude. It would take at least five cups of tea with chumpits to repair the damage to his britishness! And apparently he couldn't focus on his host even if he wanted to. But TV came to the rescue. Hah, Dudley would be so pleased when he heard that.

"Could you slap me? I think that's the proper medical procedure."  
And, being a surprisingly polite serpent person, it obliged immediately.  
"Well, hisss eyesss are ok again. Now he jusst hass to wake up. Humanss are ssso fragile.

"Maybe I ssshould jusst eat him."

* * *

On awakening, the day's trend of unexpected happenings continued. And this might well be the most unexpected: For the first time, Harry Potter understood Vernon Dursley. His colorful, if inept, descriptions the morning after a particularly long night out matched Harry's feelings rather well. Of course, the company of a massive, possibly hungry snake with an intense stare was preferable to the company of a massive, definitely hungry pig and the intense voice of its mother.

He didn't remember being quite so damp, though. Or so cold. He made a mental note to lose consciousness in warmer places in the future. From the pattern in recent events, it would make for a happier life.

"Oh, you're awake again. I put you sssomewhere more comfortable, but thisss place issn't really prepared for guessstss."  
Hmm, that explained the dampness. A snake wouldn't have many options to move a person. And maybe it wanted to know what it was missing out on. He took his continued existence as a good sign. Now, he wouldn't have to shower with hot sauce on the off-chance he committed unintentional suicide.

Harry examined that thought for a few seconds, then decided to get his head checked when (if) he returned to the castle. For now, he had a bigger issue looming over him. Especially since the issue might get impatient waiting.

"Uhmm, sorry to impose on you, but can you tell me if there's another exit? Or give me a hand with that tunnel to the girls bathroom. I don't think I could get up there on my own otherwise."  
"No." Harry was a bit concerned about his future for a few moments, before an enormous and enormously satisfied smile blossomed on the snake's face. "I don't have any handsss to give, but I can help you up to the bathroom."

Harry wondered if it had a really lame sense of humor or if it was just really literal. He decided it wouldn't matter for now, simply nodded, stood up, wobbled and sat down again. It was clear he wouldn't be going anywhere.  
"I can't give you any legsss either, but I can give you a ride." So it had a lame sense of humor. Well, he was the last with any right to complain.  
"In your mouth?" He asked hopefully, that is, hoping for a no.

And, to his great relief, that's what he got. Though the reason was somewhat insulting. He did not taste horrible. He swore then and there to return and show the snake the wide window of terrible tastes a talented cook could create. And he had become quite talented, cooking for the Dursley and their twisted preferences. He was so glad Hogwarts had put an end to his voluntary diet.

The light a the end of the tunnel tore him out of his musings on shades of taste between cooked lard and boiled lard. He slid of his temporary transport, and caught the floor before it could reach his face. Then he slowly got up, and turned to the patiently waiting snake.  
"Thanks for the ride. Mind if I visit once I'm not concussed out of my mind?"  
"No, that would be amussing."  
Huh, apparently snakes could snigger.  
"So, what about the missing sink?"  
"Just tell it to clossse. Ssame for opening it. Though you'll have to be a bit forceful, with your accent."

Harry wasn't sure what it meant with that, but didn't want to wait even longer before taking care of his head either. It had begun to ache pretty fiercely.  
So he simply nodded, said goodbye and after a short wait, commanded the sink to return.

Faint laughter drifted through the still open hole.

He sighed. This would take a while.

Omake:

"Sso you think I'm not giant."  
Harry looked sheepish for a moment, then remembered that he was talking to a giant snake and tried to look embarrassed instead.  
"Sorry, but Dudley said-"  
"Tokyo, ssso I heard. Well, watch thiss."

With that, it pulled out a cardboard replica of Tokyo (luckily there was a large sign that said so, Harry wouldn't have recognised it otherwise), and started to hurl some rather vicious insults.  
Harry watched for a few minutes, impressed by its creativity, before he felt that he'd been silent for too long.

"You know that's not what he meant."  
It looked up, and nodded.  
"Yess, but your mind'ss sso twisssted, I don't think you'll care."  
And Harry couldn't disagree.


	3. If on a winter's night a traveler

The street is dark, most street lamps long since burned out or shattered. The people here need the dark.  
The street is silent, many things trying hard not to make a sound.  
The air still carries the memory of winter.

But the street isn't empty.  
One dark figure strides down the silent streets, heading straight for the only light in this part of the city, for the only part alive.  
As he draws closer, the beat of his steps is joined by quiet sounds, heard with bones instead of ears.

He pauses in front of the corpse of an old warehouse, now infested by the parasites of the city.  
And then he throws the doors wide open and strides forward.

He manages something even a full-blown police siege didn't: He makes the music stop.

The crowd pulls back. It takes a bold or dangerous man to survive this place, a man close to his instincts. They know, no man has ever entered through the front door. They know, this is no man.

A laugh shatters the silence. It's the tall, black man on the stage, grinning widely. Before him, another man kneels sweat soaked and barely conscious.  
"Seems there might be a fight tonight after all, not just a slaughter."  
He swirls the microphone and swaggers forward to the edge of the stage. Behind him, his beaten opponent staggers away.

"So tell me, who are you, to walk through Heaven's Gate? Who are you, to claim victory's reward before the fight? A born killer or self-made conquerer? A god come to kill or die?"

His only answer is a half hidden grin and blazing eyes.  
He answers in kind.

"A god it is? I hope you can back that up, I always wanted to be a godslayer."

The figure walks towards the stage. It catches a thrown mike, and after a contemptuous glance, drops it.

"Well, are you gonna start, Buster? This is my stage, and you heard my moves." Eyes narrow. A verbal challenge was about as insulting as it got, but then it wouldn't do for the stranger to hold back.

For a split-second, the world shudders.

Then sound slams into the black man , and he can offer no resistance. He staggers under the onslaught, under the force and undeniable power. He cannot match this. He can barely comprehend this.  
He falls to his knees. He is proud, and would never kneel before another man, but there is no shame in bowing before the gods.

To speak is a disgrace, but the challenge was given.

And so he gets up, to give his last performance staring into eyes of death.

AN: Yes, there is a plot in this story. There's even foreshadowing, which means I'm a good writer, right? Anyway, the next chapter is pretty far along, so hopefully that shouldn't take as long.

Finally, this chapter is not Beta'd, so if you see some spelling/grammar/ general mistake, point it out please.

Cheers


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